


Paint the Embers

by lechatnoir



Category: Hannibal (TV), James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2013-05-26
Packaged: 2017-12-13 02:49:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/819088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lechatnoir/pseuds/lechatnoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which they dance and slash at each other, dolled up suits and blood tossed grins, dangling hostages and organs and gunshot wounds at each other instead, ripping with teeth and tooth and claw, blood red and gold and utterly pristine.</p>
<p>Clean cut and the devil's spoke.</p>
<p>(In which, both the FBI and M16 join cases in trying to find the Chesapeake Ripper when a string of seemingly unrelated and brutal murders spring up in both England and America with rapid clarity until they realize it's a game between the two of them.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paint the Embers

i.

The hot air of Dubai and brightly colored scarves laced with gold whip against the stream of his mind’s consciousness.

(Remember to never let your emotions compromise the job)

He remembers grit and sand, bullets grazing against the freshly dry cleaned suit that he had gotten , metal clanging and clacking, sparks flying.

(Compromise the enemy) 

He remembers jumping from the jacked car, smooth sailing and swerving through narrow cobblestone alleyways, high from the views of old stone buildings, dry and locked up secrets of lands that have ceased to exist. 

He is swift and silent, death at its finest, dolled up in black and white.

He smiles , grey water eyes flickering with the maniac of a killer for a split second.

(The echo of gunpowder and the rumble of the bullet hitting the ground rings through his ears) 

He boards the plane back home, when his cellphone screen lights up with a familiar number – the message is short and to the point.

_Get home safe, idiot._

He smiles once, lets the demons play with his mind as he slips under the tendrils of sleep and her sweet lullaby.

_He does not sense the serpent that watches from not too far, lips pursed over a glass of blood red wine, eyes flickering red in the hollows of his face_

ii.

Q is tea and codes, practiced simplicity and an enigma, a tyrant and na utter boy at heart, if he lets himself let go of the walls that he has built for himself, firewall upon firewall, carefully braced brick upon brick.

(He doesn’t sleep, not for days on end, waits for the sun to rise and paint the sky purple and blood red.)

He waits, sits in the window, an old battered sweater that’s far too big on him and a pair of boxers that was a gift from his mother two Christmases ago. 

(He thinks he hears the ‘click’ of the door being unlocked, but maybe it’s just a bird battering itself against the pipe drain, bashing itself repeated as if it was stuck, wings tearing apart, tendon by tendon, bones cracking and blood dripping and maybe he needs a bit of sleep) 

Bond only smiles and is silent, coming closer until he wraps his arms around Q’s waist slowly, warm flesh against cold goose bump filled flesh, nuzzling his neck.

He snaps, realizes that maybe he needs some reality, something other than blank computer screens and the four empty walls that he has locked himself into, or the floors of M16, or Q branch in general.

He realizes that it has been a few days since he has ate a proper meal, or spoken to anyone other than to bark a few orders and mutter about how incompetent some people are.

(He thinks of old demons, battered and bruised) 

Instead, he shivers and let out a shaky laugh, breath fogging up the window.

“You’re late.”

“Good to see you too, Q.”

He turns and it is Bond, disheveled and tired but whole, no major bullet wounds battering and marring him.

(For now at least)

“You could have checked up on me, Q.”

“What, feeling _needy_ are we, 007?”

“Shut up and give me a kiss already.”

He smiles and mutters something about field agents being rude and impatient but never the less acquiesces his request, backing up against the wall and humming as lips joined flesh and he felt warm again.

(They do not know the serpents that crawl and lie in wait, eyes gleaming with blood and malice laced together in a pattern of intricate webs that the spider weaves ) 

iii.

James Bond has caught Hannibal Lecter’s eye for many years now, on and off he would flicker on the radar of potential little kills.

(He can only chuckle and hum to himself as he mutters the melody of Tchaikovsky’s Symphony no. 6 , ripping through the quivering body that trembles and there is a fear in the man’s eye , the low life scum that he has watched for days on end, and yet he can only smile and hush, like a viper about to strangle its victim, he cuts through with practiced precision, knife singing with glee as the demons danced around him) 

He returns to his home, a certain swing in his step, an old dance that he remembers learning not far ago in his youth. 

(Just a simple step to the side, and now a pivot, side step and turn, once more in time with the music, that’s it.)

He remembers the ragged breaths, the utter glee and pleasure that he has schooled into a face of utter mercy, the gentle angel of death who seems to break when in the presence of the lovely creation, the utter _art_ of it all, how such disgusting rodents could be made into pristine dinners, served with fine wine and aged cheese.

He comes home and starts to cook, with a sudden bravado and gusto, for he is laying out his plan, and utter game of cat and mouse, or so he seems to think.

(A simple seed of pomegranate was able to snare in the maiden of spring and let winter loose upon the world) 

iv.

The next day, the crackle of the television announces the brutal murder of three ambassadors, all revealed to have some sort of organ missing.

(There is no pattern; it is simply whatever it is he feels like having at this point in his existence.)

There is no set decree or amount of damage, only surgical practice and the ever present silent laughter that appears on Hannibal’s face when Will looks at him, disheveled and teetering off the edge of a cliff, dragged away by a stag and its antlers that gorge into him, soft flesh stained red against pristine bone, pearl white and utterly gorgeous.

He offers to cook for Will, who accepts, ever the more cautious and worry gnaws at his insides like a vulture set upon a dying prey.

(He thinks of the kisses that they shared, blood filled and wine drenched, pomegranate and raspberry sauce drained and skin sucked dry.)

(They will be teeth and claw, grinning and cackling with the taste of wine and blood on their lips, utter hope and desperation, the dying man’s game)


End file.
